Retreat from the Forest

Running from roaches reaching for fences far above the flood line.

Falls from favor with ferocity, feeling radically on fire. But Wait...!

Not on the drive, not on the set up, not on the leapfrog of faith feared

by all the local folk. Rabid focus on the western front, rudely risking

self-execution in a faulty execution of the reimagining of some

faultless discovery. (No, not love...) Old dog on the slog to theorized

'new tricks.' Realms forged for the final aftermath of the Spacer's Choice

fallout on the day after tomorrow, just to sit amongst grueling empty halls

hearing the fatigue in the vocal resonance. Minimalist style good for the

break-in, until these putrid thoughts peels the paint off the walls--(but my

deposit...) halted by a patty caking washer pissing off the humble dryer.

Wile E. going H.O. Acme on the weeds. Pledges pre-weakened

permanently, revolting forces force one to plan with witches, fight with the

warriors, party with werewolves, so Patricia Wide-Eyes' woes remain

foreign, placing winds of Uncle tom's change freely outside the screen.

Fuck the flies, read from rebels, poke at the preposterous. Wiggle wrongly

wherever possible. Write weirdly while waking Wendigos for white wine

and prophesized wrath for the wasted who only have whistles for

perspectives.